Just This Once
by hyacinthian
Summary: The thing is...there's more reasons against than for, but he can never turn himself away. CarterLucy.


The thing is...this will never work. Not in a million years. They've been bound to fail since the beginning. But there's something about her that sets his soul on fire, makes him feel...anything. It's the gamut of emotions - lust, rage, affection, happiness. He doesn't quite know where either of them stand at one given moment. Maybe that's why he chases it like a drunkard wine.

He's been raised in the old traditions, that old rich way of making sure they keep to themselves. But he's never paid it any attention. That's why he chose Chicago, of all places. But little things worm up through his history to prickle at his skin about what they're doing. She's his protege, of all things, and his life isn't a Nabukov plot and this isn't Lolita (though the whole age difference metaphor really doesn't apply) and he can't understand why he's simultaneously deriding himself and justifying himself at the same damn time.

But the thing is...the thing is that her lips are too soft. The way they tease and curve around his in these sweet stolen moments... well, it makes him want to do things that he shouldn't. Because if John Carter had to represent anything, it's duty. Filial, familial, occupational. They all ring in his head like a sesquipedalian orchestra (and god, it shocks him that he even knows that word) that he can't ignore because he's conducting the whole damn thing.

She groans and he pulls her closer, taut against him. The thing is...the way this whole scene is playing out, he's not going to be able to stop himself from fucking her right there in the exam room. Because inevitably, her fixing his dislocated shoulder turned out to be more romantic than it should have been, breaths mingling in the spaces between suture kits and loud yelps of pain and the sound of bone crunching back into place.

Her lab coat is on the ground now and he's pressed her up against the blinds and thank God these doors have locks - their stethoscopes clash and make soft pinging noises and he wonders if that's God's idea of a sexual innuendo. He chuckles before he can stop himself, his lips finding the soft flesh of her shoulder. "What?" she hums, amused. Her arms reach around and tug his lab coat down, pull at the hem of his shirt.

"Nothing, nothing."

"The boiling point of water is 212 degrees Fahrenheit." He pulls back from kissing her, his tongue swiping quickly across his lips to give her a look of bewilderment. She leans forward and his hands lift her tank top up and off, tossing it in a corner. Their breaks are hardly ever synchronized (he is her boss, after all, and torment is the name of the game) but now that they are, they might as well ... yadda yadda carpe diem and all that. (He'd bet 10 to 1 that Chuny knows what their doing and has some sort of spread amongst the nurses regarding him and Lucy; he's also pretty sure Lucy took a 10 bet). She grinds her hips against his and he stifles a groan, leaning back to take her in, all flushed and wanton, face pink and hair mussed.

"100 degrees Celsius," he chimes quite a bit later and, at first, he delights in the absolutely confused expression on her face.

"Huh. Aren't you the smart one?" she deadpans, voice cracking halfway through as he swipes a thumb across her breast, her bra pushed up for better access.

"Didn't make me a doctor for nothing." And then she's bracing against the wall as he enters her and she throws her head back and gasps. He rocks against her, skin against skin beating a steady rhythm until her breath keens and her fingers scrabble for something to hold.

"The shelf," she manages.

"Don't worry," he says with a grin. "You can restock it after."

She digs her nails into his back. "Bastard," she groans, though the weakness and need in her voice undermine her point. He thrusts again, his fingers rubbing furiously against her, and she clenches around him, breaths hitching as he helps her ride it out until his own climax.

They try to get dressed as fast as they can in the post-coital haze though her attempts at making the shelf look passable make it worse.

As she slings the stethoscope around her neck, she grins at him. "Well, Dr. Carter, I think your shoulder's all patched up now."

"What?" he says, absentmindedly, straightening his tie. "Oh, my shoulder. Yeah, don't think I'll have any problems with that anymore."

"If you do, though, you should call your doctor." She flashes him a smile. "In case the problem is more chronic than we thought." He chuckles as she saunters out, the door clicking shut behind her. But some part of him can't help but feel sad at her absence. He shakes the thought from his head before it has time to fester. Sex is one thing (one very big, very bad thing) but love is another (I mean, really, while he's at it, he could go for every restriction in the book and get himself disbarred...or...whatever...right now). And really, he never believed in that whole Romeo and Juliet, love-at-first-sight schtick, so it's all good.

But two weeks later, it's the same old story. And when she gets hurt, he sutures her back together with a gentle touch and a soft smile. She's a zephyr in his life - breezing through with nary a care, but with enough force to propel him forwards, backwards, every which way. He kisses her when he's done (the suture room is closed off) and she smiles at him as she leaves, tossing her blonde hair behind her shoulder.

"See you later, Dr. Carter."

Yeah, he never believed in this love-at-first-sight schtick, and she's not his type anyway (aside from being blonde). He shakes his head, rolls his neck from side to side, sighs. "Buckle up," he murmurs to no one in particular. "Going to be a bumpy ride."


End file.
